


in santa barbara, i dream of you

by demourer



Series: the programme of self-destruction [1]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Angst, Car Accidents, Character Death, Depression, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Quentin Beck Is A Good Guy, Self-Harm, Tony Stark is an Asshole
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-11-23 13:00:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20892506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demourer/pseuds/demourer
Summary: The first time it happened, Peter dreamt.





	in santa barbara, i dream of you

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNING!
> 
> This story contains self-harm and suicidal thoughts, please read the tags before you read. Thank you!

The first time it happened, Peter dreamt.

He dreamt about the seashore and small hard pebbles under his feet when they touched the wet sand, the sound of the waves crashing into each other, the calming yet cold wind washing over his face in October, brought shivers down his spine. A house in Malibu, with the front of the house facing towards the beach.

It felt like a fever dream Peter always had, was forced to stop when he woke up with sweat dripping from his face, body felt disoriented like every molecule tried to leave his body. Then, he’s standing on the kitchen isle with his hips leaning on the nearest edge of the counter, Peter’s eyes focused on the sunset, it went down and down and_ down_.

When Quentin wrapped his hands around his hips, he would squeal in surprise, eliciting an amused laugh from Quentin’s mouth. Then they would kiss, deep and passionate, like every taste he got would never satisfy him, like he wanted to drown himself in Quentin. It always felt like a fever dream because everything was so good – too _good_ – to be true and somehow he knew: this wouldn’t last.

\--

Peter can’t cope.

Sometimes he wakes up feeling, better. Not better, _better_, more like he _can_ go through the day, he doesn’t find any difficulties in waking up or even brushing his teeth when he has to look at his own face in the mirror or when his eyes absentmindedly land on Quentin’s toothbrush.

If the world tries to fuck with him then _sometimes_ – which means, most of the time – he wakes up feeling miserable. His feet won’t take him to the shower, he can’t even fucking get up. His therapist – not actually his because it was Tony’s idea, Peter doesn’t need a therapist, he’s not _insane_ – said that it was depression. Peter swallowed the thought of him being depressed because no, there’s no way he could be like that.

But a lot of things had changed and perhaps, she was right.

His therapist – _Sarah?_ – maybe was right about this, because there are bad times where he would find himself sitting in the tub, legs bent to the chest and his arms hugging them, clutching on it so hard that it would leave marks on his upper arms. Then ironically, he would cry.

A tear turns into two then three, then four, then Peter lost count because his chest starts to feel heavy, constricting the air coming to his lungs. His whole body feels numb, but not with the deep ache inside his chest. The one that rots, grew like a plague and not intending to leave anytime soon. Peter hates when it happened but he cannot do anything besides accepting it, feeling it coursing, take over his body and sanity.

Peter just, _can’t_ cope.

And today is that day because he’s too tired to wake up and the alarm on his nightstand has been blaring for almost thirty minutes now and yet he has no urge to get up and turn it down. Perhaps, he has to tell Tony. About a lot of things; about the relapse, about him being late or about Peter being _Peter_ – well, probably apologize about him existing as well. Peter thinks about stopping by to that cafe near his apartment to buy Tony a cup of coffee as an apology.

\--

Peter remembered some of it.

Sometimes it jumbled like a puzzle, asking for it to be solved. There are times where he left it there, flashing a glimpse in his head, too busy to remember every part of it or maybe he’s too hurt to even do that in the first place. But also there are times, he spent his days looking into the void, his gaze is hollow, empty, because he fell in too deep and this time no one was there to save him.

Peter remembered slick skin, wet because of the sweat dripping from his body and other bodily fluids, and strong hands wrapped around his waist. It left trails of red marks all over his milk-white skin. He remembered moaning from the pleasure when Quentin snapped then ground his hips with passion and urgency.

“Come on, baby,” the bed creaked when Quentin fastened his pace, eliciting a sinful whine from Peter’s mouth.

Then, Peter would ride him harder, _deeper_, grounding his hips until he felt that spark inside him burst when Quentin hit his special spot, makes him see stars and skin tingling with pleasure. Feeling hazy from it, he would chase that feeling more and more, suddenly becoming greedy, but Quentin would stop him by snapping his hips once, twice, reminding Peter that he was in charge.

He laid Peter on his back, the sudden change of position made the young man’s toes curl in pleasure when Quentin accidentally slide deeper. “Fuck, Quentin. Please, faster, _please_—”

Quentin would quicken his pace, grunting and grounding his hips experimentally, bringing them both to the climax that they needed so much. They would spend their time panting on the bed afterward, still high and giddy from their previous activity and laughing, probably, because sometimes Quentin would say something stupid after their make love session.

Peter would laugh at whatever jokes his husband gave him, and he also couldn’t care less about the sticky fluid seeping between his thighs because Quentin would trap him in his arms and buried his face in Peter’s neck, whispering words of love with their bodies still wet from the sweat and other bodily fluids. Then they would cuddle until they’re tired and sleepy. And Peter didn’t care about anything else because he was happy.

Fuck, he was so happy, he was in a—_bliss_. He believed that everywhere he goes, as long as he had his husband, his Quentin, by his side, he would be fine, he would be happy. Peter just hoped that these feelings and moments of him and Quentin would last.

But again he knew, good things just never come to him that easily.

\--

“Peter, you good?”

Like other times, Peter somehow gets himself into staring at the same white plain wall in front of him, instead of finishing whatever he’s doing at the moment. And when other people see him in that condition, they’ll understand. They’ll tell him to stay strong – although he knows that it’s difficult. When other people spent their time giving condolence, saying the best thing to Peter, hoping that he’ll get through this – whatever they meant – and any other good things, it doesn’t apply to Tony Stark.

Tony Stark is the person you wish you’ve never met. Every time he walks into the room, either people watch him with awe or distaste. He has this aura inside of him that screams dominant and alpha and—oh God, sometimes Peter wants to punch him in the face. He always lets out rude and sharp remarks that hurt people even before they reach him.

(It’s his, trademark, really. Or probably he’s just being a fucking _dickhead_, or he doesn’t like you. He could be both, to be honest.)

In conclusion, Tony Stark is, well, he’s an asshole.

“Yeah, I’m—I’m sorry, Mr. Stark, I’m just—”

“Staring at the wall?” Tony smirks at his own joke, trying to lift the mood of the younger man but then it dims when Peter only shifts in his seat, uncomfortable, busying himself with the papers on his desk. Tony lets out an anguished sigh, “if you don’t want to work here anymore, maybe you should just quit and give the job to someone else who might need it. There are a thousand people who want to be in the position you’re in right now.”

Peter pauses, the hand where he grips the paper tightens. A frown finds its way to attach in his face, alongside with the deep ache in his chest. “You don’t have to be such an asshole about it.”

“Yeah, and see you moping around over _him_? Not a chance.” Tony doesn’t even want to roll his name in his tongue. Every time he remembers the man, he can only remember the humiliation and pain and he fucking _hates_ it.

“Why do you hate him so much, Mr. Stark? What _Quentin_ has ever done to you?”

Peter’s glad when he notices that there’s only both of them in the room. Working in the same building with Tony is amazing, truly. Became his assistant means that he gets the chance to see the older man’s projects and they will never fail to amaze Peter in every way. But sometimes it gets too overwhelming for him because they’re in private, which means if Peter has a slight change in his mood or if he does a small mistake – like staring at the fucking wall again while thinking about Quentin– he will notice it right away.

And Tony; too clouded with rage, sometimes he would just _snap_.

His hatred for Quentin used to be only a matter of how he took Peter away from him. Then, it doubled up when Quentin humiliated him. And it got worse when he died. Because Tony watched it all. He watched how Peter crumbled into pieces slowly yet surely because of it – because of his death.

Peter spent weeks of grieving, doing nothing, ate _nothing_. He didn’t show up to the lab like he used to. His gaze now is empty and hollow like it lost its spark of life. And it’s all Quentin’s faults. He had the audacity to fucking die right after Peter and he got married. It’s only a matter of time until he reached his lowest and after that, Tony doesn’t know what to do with him. Especially on how to help him.

“He is a bad guy, Peter!” Tony shouts, too loud like he does that on purpose. It almost makes Peter rolls his eyes, tired of listening to the same thing over and over and _over_ again. He hated this with his fucking guts.

It’s not a secret anymore that Tony considered him as his kid.

But only both of them knew that they were used to be lovers.

Knowing with the busy schedule and being the smartest person in the room take most of his time, he knows that family is out of Tony’s list from a long time ago, which also leads to him being single and barely gets laid. He had lovers, lots of them, but none of them stayed.

Then he found Peter.

His amazing and _beautiful_ Peter, giddy on his feet the first time he saw him.

He was still a boy when he met him, just turned eighteen at that moment. Tony remembered his cheeks were chubbier and the way he dressed literally screamed college boy – complete with the hoodie and jeans and backpack and his fluffy hair that would be pretty much messy from being run through with fingers. There would be times where Tony wished he could pull those strands and drew moans from Peter’s mouth.

After wasting more time with Peter on the lab, turned out, the pretty young man wasn’t as innocent as he thought. A small yet firm grip on Tony’s upper arm turned into something more flirty and needy and lewd. A kiss turned into a whole make-out session on the couch. Until all of them transformed into a full fucking, complete with the blowjobs and creaking desk.

The whole thing made Tony thought about his life, maybe this was the right time to settle down. He had found a right person, because, God, Peter was fucking beautiful, mesmerizing, and smart. But it all went down when Peter made it clear that it was only a fuck buddy thing – Tony didn’t even understand what the fuck that meant, but one thing he knew was, Peter had a new guy.

It almost gave him whiplash.

Tony tried his best to not mope around. Yes, he tried to drink his problems away but he didn’t mope around. He did _not_. Everything came back to normal, except, the usual flirty conversation turned into something more formal and it itched him to death to just scream at Peter and told him how he loved him all these times. But he didn’t. He acted as he agreed on Peter’s decisions because, well, anything that makes him happy, right?

Being his boss, ex-lovers – who still very much loves him – and somewhat a parent too, makes Tony always has his ways to intervenes on whatever Peter does in his life, his decisions, his _life_. It didn’t help the situation too, knowing that Peter dated a guy from other departments.

Quentin Beck was the name of the guy.

And for the love of God, Tony tried his best to not fire the guy. Because dating between employee is forbidden in any way, but then again, it was Peter. His Peter – or _was_, his Peter. Besides, not forget to mention that Peter threatened him once to not get involved in any of his life or even trying to make him miserable by firing his _new_ lover. In the end, he let them be, as long as they kept it down low – which they were.

The first time Tony heard about Quentin’s death, he didn’t know what to do or what to feel. Did he feel relief? Yes. Did he feel happy? He doesn’t know. Suddenly it made his head spin, it’s way more complicated than he thought. Of course, he wanted Quentin gone, and by that it means, he wanted him to leave Peter alone, break up with him. Not _gone_, in meaning that he’s fucking dead.

Sometimes he thought the world hated him but after this, he re-think it again and maybe, just _maybe_, the world didn’t hate him that much. But not long after that, he got his answer because well, the world did hate him in the end because he had to witness Peter – the person he loves, he _cherishes_ – shattered into pieces right in front of him when the news turned out to be true.

His hatred towards Quentin is known by everyone.

It’s like he’s not afraid of showing it around to people. Sometimes Peter thinks he’s proud of it. It's like by doing that, it brings him power and dominance. But nothing could stop Peter that time, from dating Quentin, from _marrying_ the man he loved. So, he did. Although, Tony’s seat stayed empty even after the ceremony was over.

Every day he wonders why Tony hates his husband so _much_. Just like this time. And instead of dodging his constant lectures, this time he stops, because he had enough. Tony can get overbearing sometimes because he knows how much Tony loves him – even though he tries to ignore how obvious it is – in a parental way or even in lover way, but this is just out of the line. He had fucking enough. And Tony will not degrade his husband like that anymore because, even if he’s dead, it’s _Quentin_ – his husband. How _dare_ he?

Peter turns to him, face already blotchy with tears – he has no intentions to cover it anyway because screw everybody else, he is fucking mad and so, _so_ broken at this point that everything he does always remind him of Quentin and it brings him to the edge and he had enough. With rage in his eyes, he says: “And he is fucking _dead_, Tony! He is not even here in the flesh because he’s buried six feet in the ground. He’s dead! Why can’t you just let whatever the fuck it is, _go_?”

Tony stares at him, shocked by the outburst.

The kid _never_ lashes out. Peter is the epitome of happiness and hope. Because wherever he goes, he always brings joy in people, makes people’s life somewhat easier than what it looks like. Even Natasha _fucking_ smiled when she was with Peter. He smiles like it’s his second skin like it’s a habit of his. It’s always sincere, the way he adores something by mumbling it out loud, shows his astonishment through one word always amaze Tony, but he never lashes out.

He barely gets mad over something. Even if he does, he will stay away from his surroundings, isolate himself. It’s like he punishes himself for ever having that. By being there when his friends were feeling down but then closing all the doors when he went through that. It is ironic. And when he screams like that, it makes Tony realizes how much pent-up rage and frustrations Peter had inside him.

Tony wonders inside that little body; is that all he had or he had so much _more_ other than that.

“I watched him die, do you know that?”

No, Tony doesn’t know.

But one thing he knows for sure is that he can hear his heart’s breaking, shatters into smaller particles at the new piece of information. Tony knows he had more inside him, more secrets, more bitter truth, he just doesn’t expect that this would be one of them. After hearing those four words, all of a sudden he feels like the biggest douchebag in the world.

It isn’t Peter’s fault, at all. He blames it on his own issues. He had no right to be mad at the kid. Tony hates Quentin because he hurts his pride. Stepped on him, humiliated him in the front of people. The _amazing_ Tony Stark who was known as the billionaire and the genius man turned out to be a fake, the person that stole someone’s idea then labeled it as his.

He hates Quentin because he was right. 

“I watched the car, hit him hard and dragged his body to the asphalt, blood _everywhere_ then I—I just stood there. I—I _couldn’t_—I should’ve been in that car with him, die with him, but I didn’t, I _didn’t_—” he whimpers, like it hurts him to the core to say it. “There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t think about him and hoping I had died with him.”

“Peter—”

“We’re married for one year—God, it’s not even close to a _year _yet,” His lips are trembling, eyes are wet with tears. “What will you do if it was me?” It makes Tony blinks, registering what he had just heard, “if you watch me die, like Quentin? Would you go partying around and celebrate it by drinking your liquor like you fucking did or would you do the same as what I _did_, right now?”

No.

He’ll do neither of them because he doesn’t think he’ll make it. Tony is one hundred percent sure he’ll drink all of his liquors – even the one in the secret part of cabinet – until he tastes death in the tip of his tongue. Till the death reaper himself comes to him, asking for his life. Or perhaps, more ironically, he’ll offer his own life to the death reaper.

The thought of not having Peter in his arms, not able to hug him and kisses his neck like he used to when they were still two people who craved human touch, affection, already broke him, mentally and physically. He cannot imagine how hard would it be for him when the role is reversed – not Quentin but _Peter._

Over-excited Peter came out from the building with his backpack and his stupid MIT hoodie he’s very much proud of, not acknowledging the car was coming towards his direction, fast and adamant. Then it happened in a blink of an eye, the eerie, silence because of the shock running through his veins. People screamed in horror, the blood – just like what Peter had said – was everywhere.

What if Tony was there to see everything, just like what Peter had when he watched Quentin? The euphoria of meeting your loved one after an agonizing day without them turned into a nightmare that would haunt you down in every sleep.

Then suddenly he can picture it all, of how is it like to be in Peter’s position. The numbness that spread like a sickness, the distress and anxiety coursing in his veins every day every hour, the guilt, the _fear_. The vivid images of tires squealing and the loud crash, make his skin crawls.

There’s a silence stretched long enough between them. Enough to make Tony pinches the bridge of his nose and Peter shifts angrily on his feet, face still wet and red – he refuses to wipe the tracks of his tears.

“I—I get it, Peter—”

“No,” he lets out a humorless laugh, “you have _no_ idea of what I’ve been through, Tony,” stepping forward and jabs his finger on Tony’s chest, punctuates on every word, “you have no fucking idea how people kept sending me messages and _loves_ and shits, and for _what_? His death will always haunt me for the rest of my life and they have no _fucking_ idea of what it feels like. They keep saying that I will make it through or, or, I will find someone better – bullshit, I know – and, and a lot of other things! I just, I had enough,

“And the fucking therapist you sent me. She said the same thing, that I’ll make it through and everything’s gonna be fine! I don’t want that. I want to forget. I want to forget the smile on his face right before he crossed the street with that fucking dumb roses. I want—I want people to stop looking at me with pity on their eyes. I just—I want to stop being so fucking mad all the time and stop feeling this way, stop being fucking depressed, I—I just want to _live_,

“Then there’s you,” Peter scoffs, “moaning about how Quentin is—_was_, a bad guy or like, he brought bad influences to my life and I shouldn’t have married him. And it just fucking pissed me off! I mean, I am his husband, Stark, for fuck’s sake!” _oh fuck,_ Tony thinks,_ he uses his last name_ – meaning, Peter is really, truly, angry with him, “just so you know, Quentin was the kindest man I've ever known. He's also selfless, caring, responsible, smart and loyal. So, listen Tony, I might be much _much_ younger than you but I know love when I see one. And Quentin Beck _loved_ me just as much as I love him.”

That hurts Tony to the core.

Perhaps, Peter is right. Perhaps, Quentin wasn’t a bad guy and he’s as sincere and kind as what Peter always told him so many times. Perhaps it’s him. He’s the one with issues. When his lovers left him, it was all because of him. Of how he wasn’t there enough or he didn’t love them enough or his drinking habit. Perhaps, it _is_ him.

Before Tony can say anything, Peter beats him again, saying:

“I am sorry for whatever you had with Quentin that made you hate him so, _so_ much, but I am _not_ sorry for defending him and saying shit to you because you _deserve_ it.” Peter spits it out like it has venom in those words. “You can fire me or whatever. I am done.”

With that Peter leaves.

\--

A week later, Tony comes to his apartment.

Peter is adamant about opening the door for him, but then he begs. Tony Stark never begs and yet he does, right now. Either he’s desperate or—well, he’s _desperate_. And Peter knows that from the constant knocking on his door even after he told him to fuck off.

When he opens the door, Tony engulfs him in a tight hug. Peter doesn’t remember when was the last time he had a hug. The thing is, the hug is... _fine_, it’s not too tight that makes him hard to breathe and uncomfortable, it’s the opposite; the hug is comforting.

It’s nice because for once he can feel the man’s warmth seeping out from his clothes instead of the same cold bed sheet he always had at night, an apparent heart beating that he can feel and hear, which makes him surprised because how loud it is (but then realizing it’s because of the almost non-existence distance) and then Tony’s perfume – smells like spice but not too strong and wood? – that keeps him at bay, relaxing the tense muscles on his shoulders.

Peter’s about to doze off on his shoulder – probably because of the lack of sleep he had these couple of days – but then sentences full of sorry and sorrow tumbling down from Tony’s mouth, reminding him what he’s actually here for. It’s like they were there, being kept inside him until it piled up and when it has the chance to come out, it falls down, flowing like river waterfall.

Tony tells Peter about all of it.

The reason why he hates Quentin, on stealing BARF and claimed it as his idea, on how Quentin dared to humiliate him in front of hundreds of people. Tony tells him how much he envies Quentin. Because he probably wasn’t as rich or as famous or genius as him, but Quentin got Peter’s full love and attention and Tony just hates him for it.

What catches him off guard is when he cups Peter’s cheeks with such loving in those eyes. Tony tells him how he loves Peter. Even after everything, he just cannot stand there and do nothing, so he decided to tell him about how he truly feels towards the young man. And he doesn’t care if he doesn’t love him back, but he’s telling him that Tony will always be there for him.

Peter’s heart breaks more and he doesn’t know if it’s from Tony’s sincere words, willing to help him or because he isn’t able to return his feeling.

\--

The first time he saw it, was when they almost make love.

Well, no. Tony didn’t consider that as a make love, more like _fucking_ – that will ease both of their sexual desire and frustration of craving human touch. Also with Peter’s condition, there was no possibility that they would make love. There was no way Peter would _love_ him. It would be just a quick fuck, no string attach, _loveless_, just like in the past.

Then, he saw it, with his own eyes. The almost-healed and the still-new red slits on Peter’s thighs. His mind was running with thousand of possibilities as his eyes raked up on his thighs, closing his mouth abruptly when he noticed himself gaping at the sight.

Even with the dimmed light on his bedroom, Tony could see which one is the newest scar based on the freshness of the colors of the blood that still stuck on it or the depth of the slits. He could find himself shivering and wincing because—_holy fuck_, that’s a lot of scars. Littered on his thighs, like Peter didn’t care about the not-healed scar, because he craved the pain, the sting of being scrapped on the rough material of his jeans or when the too-hot water hits them and makes them burn. He needed the pain to cope, to deal with something he cannot undo.

Then it’s gone. Because Peter was panicking, half-sitting on his lap, hands fumbling with his jeans, trying to pull it up and covered the marks of his sorrow. Words fumbling down, saying: “sorry, I’m sorry I didn’t mean to, I just, sorry, Tony, I’ve _ruined_ it—”

Everything that happens, suddenly it clicked in Tony’s head.

This was Peter’s way of coping, of dealing with Quentin’s death – by being self-destructive. Not with drowning himself in hard liquor until it breaks his liver, not with staying up all night and not getting any blinks of sleep but by _this_.

He knew that Peter is too _normal_. Not like it’s a bad thing, not at all. But Peter is just too _calm_ and people like him, who witnessed a car accident are supposed to be more violent or more punishing towards oneself because of the trauma and the shock that haunts him, yet it doesn’t happen to Peter. And now he knows the answer. After all these times, he just knew it yesterday.

Right now, Peter is sleeping on the couch in Tony’s house in Santa Barbara.

After a lot of talking and arguing and screaming harsh words they’ve never meant to, finally, Peter agreed of moving into the house. The house was already full of furniture and kitchen appliances, so Peter only moves in bringing nothing but his stuff in lots of boxes.

The older man knows that Peter brought along Quentin’s stuff with him, that somehow fits only in two plain boxes that he purposefully didn’t put any label on it – because probably it would be too obvious that he brought his dead husband’s stuff with him if he did. He never sees him arranging it in his room, instead, he puts the boxes on the corner of the room, isolated.

The house was a gift from Tony to Peter. Well, not really. Basically Tony had that house empty for so long, he brought that two years ago because he thought it was cute and perhaps he would need the house someday. And giving the house to Peter sounds like a good idea seeing that he never uses it and he can also monitor the young man by coming to the house.

Peter doesn’t really care about Tony showing up in the house all of a sudden, bringing bags full of groceries, because it’s his house anyway. And Peter’s old apartment was suck and small and crappy so he sort of like living in the house. Besides, Peter does enjoy the accompany, although he never said that out loud.

Sometimes they would spend their night talking or watching movies. Peter told him once that he felt bad for Quentin’s parents. He felt useless, worthless, for cannot protecting their son, for being the worst husband, for bringing Quentin to the death earlier that he’s supposed to be. The worst thing is that Tony sees it all.

There are times where Peter falls into a breakdown. Suddenly he’s crying in his room, pleading for forgiveness, blaming himself because he couldn’t undo what’s happening or because he’s too much of a coward to follow Quentin’s path. And Tony’s there, hugging him and whispering tranquil words because he’s not good at soothing but he’ll do anything for Peter.

The boy deserves better.

Yesterday, right after Tony found out about his scars, Peter told him that he wants to stop, he needs to change, he needs _help_. He wants Tony to book a session with his previous therapist, Sarah. And honest to God, Tony almost cried at that moment but he successfully held it down, because it would pretty much ruin the moment and he didn’t want to embarrass himself in front of the young man. Tony knows his request was not much, but it was something. It’s a relief to see that Peter wants to change, even though it will take so much time.

Tony wants to make a change to himself. He had spent his life wasting his time on doing whatever the fuck he did back then and not actually thinking about other people besides himself. He was a selfish motherfucker and acknowledge that. He knows how much his people hate him and he wants to change that. Tony Stark wants to be a better person, for himself, for Peter.

Without making any sound, Tony stalks his way to the couch and gives the younger man a kiss on the forehead; soft, proud, loving and a little of saying: _“I love you, Peter.”_

\--

In Santa Barbara, Peter dreams about Quentin.

No sunset will greet him in this one. No sun that goes down and down and _down_.

Instead of standing in the kitchen isle of their house in Malibu, he’s laying down in his bed. Quentin still has his arms wrapped around him – like he knows what will exactly happen if he lets go. His mouth touching Peter’s temple, branding him, soft and forgiving.

“I’m letting you go.”

Peter looks up abruptly, expecting a soft amused laugh like he always heard in other dreams he had, but then he notices the changes of his surroundings: the room was dark from the start and he cannot see him. He doesn’t even catch a glimpse of his face or the curve of sharpness of his jaw, only his steady huffs of breath hitting near his face. At that moment, he realizes too, that in every dream he had, slowly but surely, Quentin starts to show less of his face. It’s like the fragments of him in his memory are chipped off, meant to be forgotten.

His hands find their way to grab the front of Quentin’s shirt. The material is soft beneath his fingertips, he thinks of Quentin’s white shirt or perhaps his MIT hoodie. The grip tightens, scared he’ll vanish into a thin air, leaving him alone in the cold of the night with nothing but grief and heartsore and he hates of going through the same thing all over again. “What do you mean?”

It feels like an eternity when everything falls into silence. If it’s not because of Quentin’s arms that keep him anchored into the bed, he’ll start thinking that the silence is kind of eerie, frightening, makes his skin crawls. Only the steady heartbeats that encourage Peter into believing that: he’s here. His husband is alive and he’s with him.

Quentin puts his lips on Peter’s forehead, right between his eyebrows – a gentle gesture that always melts Peter on the spot, brings back the nostalgia, the surge of joy like when they first got married. He kisses him there, soft and _forgiving_.

“I am letting you go, Peter.”

The story of them, memories of bloodied asphalts, screeching tires and frigid wind in October remain buried deep inside the wet sand and Quentin: presents and alive and _breathing_ in every Peter’s dream.

Quentin is the embodiment of something quintessential. Quentin himself is picturesque – a confident, idyllic, gorgeous, genius, kind, composed, tough man. He can fit all of those in the body of his. Peter had known him for five years – feels like forever, sometimes – and married him for a year and still, he couldn’t figure what he was. Quentin Beck is an enigma that caught Peter’s eyes yet would never have the chance to solve – even after he died. At the thought, Peter can only smile sadly at the aching heart.

Perhaps, this is it.

In the end, Peter has to let go. Because his life is still far ahead, he’s still young and wasting his life mourning over his husband isn’t right. And letting go doesn’t mean that he has to forget. Letting go means that: Quentin can leave now. Peter had learned a lot of things – because of him – including love but it’s time for him to go and for Peter to move on. Quentin will always be in his heart because Peter loves him.

So, Peter lets him go – because he has to, because Quentin tells him to. And this time, instead of cracking up a sob from his mouth and tight clutching on Quentin’s shirt, Peter smiles. A little sad but it’s still a smile. He cannot help with the tears that start making its trail down to his cheek. Then he lets his hand go and says:

“Thank you, thank _you_, for everything. I love you so much, Quentin.”

Quentin smiles at that, it’s so fucking soft and Peter feels like sobbing. “I love you too, baby. Please be happy, always. Be happy for _me_.”

Then they kiss – deep and passionate and _so_ much love. The kiss that he always craves, gets him addicted like a drug and makes his heart starts aching with it.

Peter wakes up.

\--

Memories of hundred sunsets, wild seagulls whipped their wings in the twilight of a red sky, calm and serene with warmth radiating from it, turns into a forlorn night in a strange city with sleepless night and loud noises coming from the busy street – concealing the cracking sounds of his heart.

Quentin and Peter fell in love in Malibu, then later Peter left with nothing but boxes full of reminiscences of his past and a golden band that stays in his left ring finger.

The sky is still red and sore from its wound; Quentin never coming back.

**Author's Note:**

> The story has a plot like this: Tony and Peter were fuck-buddies and Tony developed feeling on Peter but turned out he’s dating Quentin (sike, sorry, Starker). Tony still loves him but Peter chose Quentin over him because from the very start, he already fell for him, then years later, married him. One year after the marriage, Quentin died in an accident – a car hit him and he died in the spot with Peter standing across the street, saw it all. And instead of Quentin who should hate Tony (like in the movie), it’s the other way around.
> 
> Tony Stark hates him for stealing Peter away from him, and as his revenge, he stole Quentin’s idea – BARF – and then presented the idea to the crowd and Quentin somewhat stopped the presentation and told them how it was his which lead him into being humiliated in front of people and stuff. And he hates him even more when Quentin’s dead, because with that, Peter is miserable and crying all the time and broken and Tony could do nothing besides watching him break into pieces. 
> 
> This is a story about how Peter can’t cope with Quentin’s death and the memories of them being together always haunts him, and how Quentin himself isn’t ready to let him go (so like his ghost is still around, yes it’s scary I know, but I’ll do anything for the angst, friend, sorry not sorry)


End file.
